


Bad Goods to Barter

by hornblowerfic_archivist



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-03
Updated: 2006-10-03
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:30:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hornblowerfic_archivist/pseuds/hornblowerfic_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Sawyer always saw in Bush a kindred spirit, but was Bush ever aware of that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Goods to Barter

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Hornblowerfic.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hornblowerfic.com). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in January 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [Hornblowerfic.com collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hornblowerfic/profile).

With all his shrewdness he could bet that they would never become friends, even if it were friendship against a common enemy. They were too different: Buckland, ever watchful, was too preoccupied with being capable, and anyone ranked close to him was forever marred in his eyes with a stain of rivalry. Roberts was too easygoing to cross the buddy-to-friend line and single out a particular soul for a more intimate bond. Smith was obviously miscast as the fourth lieutenant and put all efforts into poor attempts to conceal his weakness. The three of them paid more attention to their personal concerns than to the matters outside of their world, and were unable or at least reluctant to analyse anything beyond direct fulfillment of a command.

It was the third and the fifth of his lieutenants who worried captain Sawyer most in his wakeful hours. Symptoms were scarce, and little would lead to any condemnatory assumption against that pair except for what Sawyer, had he been more inclined towards Gothic terminology, might call an affinity of spirits. Romanticised or not, the term sounded dangerous: there were only a few short steps from affinity to sympathy, and from sympathy – to attraction.

He could not, and would not allow that. Prudence and experience prompted that it was futile to exert authority over Hornblower. The man would bend like a willow in the wind, to straighten up a moment later. Sawyer was too well familiar with this type: medicine had a long way to go to invent a valve that would control the flow of thoughts in his brain, and a filter that would purge them of enthusiasm. At the same time this type usually excelled in deciphering stratagems and drawing logical conclusions from oblique indications.

Bush, the third, was, coincidentally, a fitting slate to write those indications on. In the twilight of his cabin the captain pressed a palm against his forehead. He had just caught the right idea by its tail, but contemplation hurt and unsettled, and he was about to call for Dr. Clive but thought better of it. Clive’s comforts were transitory, and their opiate sedation soon wore off. He needed something substantial in this realm of wild guesses, something solid and sturdy to build his defence on.

He sent for the third lieutenant, not sure what he was going to tell him. The thick air of the cabin didn’t help to clear his mind, but the door had to be shut tight, particularly at nighttime when sleep could overcome his vigilance. Under the hot pressure of his fleshy palm his mind was as dusky as the cabin’s corners, and he resented that, he always wanted to be straightforward, steering clear of misinterpretation and intrigue. He, Sawyer, long time ago used to be like Bush, open and forthright, until such men as the fifth taught him cruel lessons with their cunning. He was the true kindred spirit for Bush, their devotion to order and discipline being a remarkable semblance. It shouldn’t be difficult to put across such an obvious truth.

The realisation calmed him considerably, and he stood up and straightened his uniform to assume a composed look just in time to answer the polite knock on the door.

“You called for me, sir?”

“Mr. Bush, please be seated.”

The third didn’t seem in the least perturbed, as if nightly summons to the captain’s cabin were a matter of routine. Sawyer admitted to himself with sudden easiness that he liked Bush: he was a new face onboard, he wasn’t spoilt by any influence, he was unprejudiced towards the captain’s actions and doubtlessly would see them for what they really were.

“How do you like the ‘Renown’, Mr. Bush?”

“With all respect, sir, but being new I don’t feel I’m entitled to any opinion…”

“I always intend to make sure the new additions to the crew find their proper place.” Sawyer considered the importance of that claim and added with sincere solemness: “It is my duty as the captain.”

“I’m quite satisfied with my commission, sir. I couldn’t desire more.”

“Oh, but you should. I know how young men like you see the world – an arena of opportunities and clashing interests, and the right choice is not always easy.” He never expected that loading words with implied meaning was such a hard task; he felt how drops of pained sweat crawled from under the wig down his temples, and knew that this speech would wring the last strength out of him.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t see what options under the current circumstances could turn me on the wrong track.”

Later he would call Dr. Clive and find the relief of oblivion in his sweet-smelling tinctures.

“I mean your friendships, Mr. Bush. One builds his reputation through the men one surrounds himself with.”

“The ‘Renown’s men, I’m sure, are an excellent crew…” Bush leaned back, distancing himself from the need to make any improper classification.

“You are too honest and could be easily deceived. Let not your good nature be the cause of your downfall. I know,” said Sawyer dreamily, in an odd contrast to his usual vigilant state, and saw that the third followed him now more closely. “I know how it usually turns out. One longs for a trustworthy soul to share the burden of loneliness that can be so wearisome at sea. One looks around and sees many, many faces, but with little sincere caring in their mien. And when one finds, or thinks that he finds, someone who pretends to share the same sentiment, it is all too easy to fall prey to such dishonesty. Are you the gullible one, Mr. Bush?”

“With all respect, sir, I cannot see what you are driving at?”

It was too stuffy in the cabin. And yet he wouldn’t risk letting in any fresh air as it might invite an unwelcome ear to pay malevolent attention. He stepped closer to the chair the third lieutenant was seated in.

Bush, on the contrary, didn’t seem to suffer from any obvious discomfort apart from sincere puzzlement at his captain’s unexpected bout of frankness. Finding himself a sudden confidant of the captain’s private wisdom left him alert but collected and he sat calmly, one hand resting on the table and the other on his knee, much as he would sit waiting for a secret dispatch to deliver.

“I’m driving at the responsibility of the choices you make. You are young; you have a life in front of you. A wisely chosen friend could help you advance, especially if he is in a higher rank than you are now. For instance, the captain of your ship could be of immense help in supporting your promotion. I have some weight in the Admiralty.”

That was it. He couldn’t have been more tactful, not when the inner voice of all his essence was screaming ‘choose me!’ inside his mind.

Bush’s hand, strengthened by years of deck drills and yet still delicately shaped, made a small move along the table’s edge.

“Did I…” The third was also having trouble expressing his thoughts, Sawyer noted with content; that meant he wasn’t, after all, impervious to the suggestion. “Sir, did I give you any reason to doubt my loyalty?”

The ship thrashed across several waves when Sawyer finally saw the true significance of the third’s question.

“You think I would commit such a disgrace as trying to bribe my officer?” The lieutenant’s face was a mask of polite attention but his hand moved again, such an annoying little gesture that conveyed as much admission as an overt shrug of shoulders, and yet was so tiny, so reserved that it seemed the maker of it didn’t think the matter worth of any direct expression… Sawyer grabbed that hand before he could reason himself into self-control, and the fingers were suddenly very soft and yielding in his grip and bent obediently to fill the narrow space inside his closing palm.

“This is an insult, Mr. Bush. I could see you hanged for such insinuation.”

“I wasn’t implying that…”

The hand hardened, still dry and warm but stone firm under his touch, and Sawyer pressed harder, squeezing the knuckles until the bones were forced against one another. Breath suddenly failed him, the inalterable heaving rhythm faltered, and he hastily unbuttoned his uniform in search for a saving lungful and instinctively pressed the third’s hand to his chest as if the contact of a stranger’s skin against his own hot and damp one could steady his heartbeat.

“Had I had a son, he might have looked like you.”

Concern in Bush’s eyes turned into alarm, and then, in a momentary shift, to pity. Poor acting never helped the third to mask his feelings, and now the generosity of compassion shone through brightly, sincere and conceited.

“Don’t you dare,” whispered Sawyer, his lips numb and disobedient, “don’t you ever dare to pity your captain.”

His limbs assumed a life of their own, and he let go of the third’s hand to put an arm on his shoulder and press downwards, until the man was seated again, and Sawyer’s hand was entangled in his hair, pushing the third closer until his cheek rested against the fabric of the captain’s uniform.

“I know. Believe me, I know. You think you have a friend, but one day, due to Fortune’s somersaults, he is put above you and you are in his hands, you’re in dependence and he’s the one determining you and your authority is countermanded. How will you like that? How will you like it when your ‘friend’ displaces you and his command is your death?”

He felt that Bush was holding his breath trying to stay motionless, and he knew what he would have sensed, had he dared to breathe in the captain’s smell – the smell of sweat and gunpowder.

“You can never love your commander,” he continued in a whisper, and shadows crowded in the corners, eager to eavesdrop. “You fear him and respect him. And as you climb higher, there’s always someone breathing into your back, ardent to overtake, and one day he will, and you’ll be thrown out like trash…” He looked down at the dark-haired head pressed to his chest. “Is it so hard to understand me?”

“No,” Bush whispered into the rough fabric. “No, my captain.”

“It is not fear, but caution. One day a cub like that Hornblower will come and take what should rightfully be yours. Don’t say then that I didn’t warn you.” He forced the third’s head up to look into his face, pale and very serious, and abruptly bowed to kiss his forehead. “You deserve better. I know that I can trust you, Bush, of all the men onboard.”

“Of course, sir.”

He willed his hands to let go, and they obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

“You can go, Mr. Bush. And send for Dr. Clive, please.”

“Aye, sir.”

The third left, walking out slower than Sawyer expected, either due to confusion or – he didn’t allow himself luxury to truly hope for that – due to consideration he paid to the words just said. Soon the doctor’s potent tincture would end this tiring day; soon there would be rest. The captain turned to sit down in the chair that the lieutenant had just occupied; the wood still kept the other’s warmth. Before the door was closed a puzzled greeting from the officer of the watch was clearly heard in the calm of the night.

The officer was Hornblower. The captain leaned on the table and closed his hands over his head not to hear Bush’s reply.


End file.
